Fragile Kicks and IEP Dillemas

I know everyone has been on the edge of their seats about this one.

Leo’s yellow Crocs were a huge bust.

Not only were they too small (OK, they fit but they’re a tad narrow for Barney Rubble Foot). He just doesn’t seem comfortable in them. And then about ten minutes after he tried them on for the first time, he succeeded in ripping the back strap off of one of them (oh my little Curious George/El Destructo, sigh). Apparently you can order replacements from the company (of course you can! Why am I even surprised?) which I’m in the process of doing, but I’m also considering just reselling the darn things on eBay. Oh well.

Meanwhile Ellie is obsessed with her pink Crocs. It’s all she’ll wear. Well, fifty percent summer shoe success isn’t bad I guess.

In other more “hard” news, Leo’s IEP meeting is next week. Gulp. I guess I should be more nervous than I am. I received a nice call from Leo’s physical therapist last night. I’m pretty sure she thinks I’m crazy because I answered the phone with a very suspicious tone as it was around the time that telemarketers call. Couple this with the fact that hardly anyone but Erin’s work uses our land line, well let’s just say I did not sound overly friendly. But I quickly warmed to her when I realized who it was (oops) and figured out that she called to check on Leo’s tooth (or lack of!) since, as you’ll recall, it was during a P.T. session that he lost a tooth earlier this week.

She also wanted to let me know that she would not be able to attend the IEP meeting, but that she was planning to propose reducing his P.T. sessions to once a week (down from three, one individual and two “group” sessions which is really only two kids).

She said Leo is doing fabulously and has made huge strides this year. He actually met all of his goals for the year back in December (so of course she created new goals). She added she’s noticing him making progress in other areas: last week Leo asked her for a drink of water, as a full sentence (this sentence thing is new and big, trust me). Her response: You can have anything you want if you say it in a sentence!
She pronounced him as doing “everything a typical kindergartner is doing with just a slight delay.”

This is great news of course, but I’m torn about reducing his P.T. On the one hand, it’s wonderful that he’s doing so well. On the other hand, is he doing so well because of all the therapy (three weekly 30-minute sessions)? Who’s to know?

Not a huge, mind blowing question, but one of the many that will swirl around in my head tonight as I lie in bed, having stayed up too late to watch the season finale of "Grey's Anatomy."

They Want to Take Him Home

I met with Leo’s teacher for his parent-teacher conference today.

Leo marched into school like it was his place. He took me right to his classroom, knew exactly where he was going.

While I met with the teacher Leo worked on the computer, turning the little mouse right where it needed to go, typing on the keyboard.

Mrs. L started the meeting off with:

“We love Leo. He’s doing great.”

I was worried I was going to start crying right then and there. I mean, I wasn’t expecting bad news. There had been nothing to suggest Leo wasn't doing well. It’s just so nice to hear that he is, straight from the source. What can I say, Leo chokes me up. Often.

Mrs. L showed me what he’s been working on, handwriting, math, reading and vocabulary. She said he’s only had two potty accidents the entire school year (much better than he does at home but that’s another story).

So far, he’s only “run off” twice (I had concerns going in about the size of the school, the number of kids, Leo getting, you know, lost), and both times were en route to a trailer that the P.T. uses for therapy sessions. I guess going outside can get him distracted. I imagine him thinking Such pretty leaves on the trees! What a cool playground over there!

He still isn’t loving the lunches I’m packing (I’ve had to find more cold alternatives and he’s just not a sandwich guy). The teacher keeps asking me why I don’t want him to have hot lunch. Sorry, but the options are kind of junky sounding. He does get cheese pizza on Friday, which he loves.

Mrs. L. said she’s so glad that she thought to ask me (via a note in Leo's communication book) who “Ruby” is (she’s our golden retriever, aka Leo’s second best friend--after Ellie). Apparently Leo talks about Ruby A LOT at school.

The only real downer was when I asked about Leo's language. I've noticed in the last few weeks he seems to be speaking more, putting more words together (see the report on the four word sentence over the weekend) but Leo is still pretty difficult to understand. I asked Mrs. L if most kids at Leo's age get easier to understand as they get older. She said it's really hard to predict and it's very "individualized." What? No crystal ball? No guarantee that Leo will be one of those people with DS for whom speech is not a problem?

Oh well.

Mrs. L. concluded by saying that Leo is doing everything he should be and progressing nicely with all of his skills. And also, that “everyone in the school loves him, they want to take him home,” and that he “gives great hugs.”

All of this is wonderful, except for the taking home part. Sorry guys but he’s all mine. Although there are certainly days when I might consider letting someone borrow him for a few hours.

Uncle

I got nothing. So this is a check-in. I will once again steal Holly Hunter's line from "Broadcast News:"

I'm nothing but a "dead lump of poured out flesh.”

The last 24 hours (particular the period on Monday between 5:35pm and midnight) have been nothing short of sucktastical. Trust me.

OK there's this that's good. Leo went on a fabulous sounding field trip to a working farm today. He took a hayride, explored a corn maze, met the requisite farm animals. It's great because he goes on the kindergarten trips with the "typical" kindergarteners and his aide accompanies him, to make sure he doesn't you know, get lost in the corn maze. I couldn't be happier.

Speaking of school, I love that Leo's teacher is so pro-email. And so conscientous. She called me last night to remind me to pack a juice box since Leo had the field trip (as opposed to a thermos-cup of juice as per usual). Of course I didn't listen to the message in time and so she had to send Leo to the farm with a juice box that she had in the class stash. She of course wrote me a note about this in Leo's notebook and emailed me about it (she wasn't being naggy about it-I think she just wanted to make sure it was ok that she'd done it. She was quick to tell me it was an apple juice box).

Love her.

OK so maybe not so "uncle" afterall.

A Night Without Leo That Was All About Leo

You know you’re a grown-up when you’re introduced as Mrs. (your last name here) to a principal.

I’m the mom of a kindergartner, a five-year-old, an actual kid, and yet, I still can’t quite wrap my brain around the fact that I’m a grown-up. Someone’s mom.

But enough about me. Last night was Leo’s night to shine, even though he wasn’t even there. It was the open house of his new school. There are five kids in the class (he attends “specials”—music, art, P.E., library) and eats lunch/goes to recess with the general ed kindergarten.

Two other parents came, so not a terrible showing. I always think of my mom during school open houses. A veteran, resigned, sometimes cranky but also deeply committed elementary school teacher, she groused annually about the inevitably horrific attendance at open house night, to say nothing of the parent that once showed up drunk. (True story.)

As far as I could tell there were no drunk parents last night.

For starters, I love Leo’s teacher. What’s not to love about a woman who signs her notes home to the parents “Educationally yours?” She is energetic and enthusiastic and patient and creative and not to get all Disney movie but when she talks about the kids, she seriously gets a twinkle in her eye.

As she spoke about the daily schedule I let my eyes wander around the classroom. It’s cluttered but organized. Kitschy autumn wreaths and scarecrows straight from Michael’s adorned one bulletin board; a table in the corner featured “everything about apples.” They’re doing a unit on apples, so there was apple sauce, dried apple snacks and of course, apples.

And everything in the room is labeled. A woman who enjoys a label maker as much as I do is a woman I can stand behind. We were able to sit at Leo’s little desk and look through his folders and notebooks. The older he gets, the easier it is to comprehend him having a life apart from us (at school for now, in many years, who knows where?). In second grade, Leo will start learning Spanish, as well as begin learning the recorder, in preparation for an instrument of his choice.

Leo is the youngest in the class by far, and being the “new kid” there was plenty of talk about him. He was pronounced “popular” by both the teacher and the aide (what can I say? Music to a parent’s ear) and every teacher/therapist/school official I was introduced to immediately exclaimed “Oh! Your Leo’s mom! (in a good way) when they learned who I was. He does have a certain presence, a way of making himself known by all.

Erin and I surreptitiously skipped out on the PTA meeting that followed the classroom presentations (I haven’t decided if I want to get involved this year but I’ll certainly write the checks for whatever they need).

We used the babysitter as an excuse to extend the evening into cheap, bad Chinese food, eaten under disturbingly bright fluorescent lights. It was the first time Erin and I had eaten a meal out (such as it was), without the kids, in months. We tried our best not to talk about either of the kids too much, but of course, Leo kept coming up. I think we were both on a little high.

Our boy is doing well. He’s happy. He works hard and people like him. Tomorrow that could all change. But last night, over Szechuan tofu and shrimp lo mein, that was all I needed to know.

The Happiest Sick Person I Know

Leo zoomed into the pediatrician’s office going about twenty miles per hour this morning. He headed straight past the “Not So Well” sign (the office has a “well” and a “sick” room, god bless ‘em) and dove headfirst into the pile of books. Yeah, he looked really ill.

All the office ladies greeted him enthusiastically, along with my favorite nurse practitioner. Whenever we go to the pediatrician’s, the whole crew has to check in with Leo. It’s pretty sweet. Leo’s the guy who screams like he’s being tortured whether it’s an ear exam or a flu shot, but he’s also the guy who hugs the bearer of the otoscope or the giver of the shot, the second any “procedure” is over. He can’t help himself.

The school nurse called me yesterday morning as I was headed into work. I saw the number on my caller ID and my heart sank. It’s too soon to be getting sick calls—it’s only week two of school. She explained Leo’s teacher was concerned about the amount of, er, “secretions” coming from his nose. It’s true. Leo’s had a horrific runny nose going on a few weeks now. He’s cheerful in spite of it and seems fine otherwise, so I haven’t wanted to run to the doctor to get prescribed a dreaded antibiotic. I’d hoped this little bug would work itself out but alas, it didn’t seem to be doing that.

I vowed to call Leo’s doctor and made an appointment for the next morning, which was today.

Sure enough, the verdict was bacterial sinus infection. The doctor took his time examining Leo though of course he did not make it easy. His chest was perfectly clear, and the doctor told me that pneumonia can be difficult to diagnose in people with Down syndrome, something about the low tone masking it? He also said it’s important to treat sinus infections quickly so that they don’t spread to the nasal bone. Yikes and also, geesh. But he said Leo was in no danger and we definitely caught it in time. Great, another thing to add to my list of medical paranoia.

The doctor asked me if we’d ever considered an adnoidectomy (Leo does seem to get 2-3 of these sorts of infections every winter and September seems a bit early to be starting). We agreed to keep an eye on things. I’m certainly in no hurry to rush him into surgery, especially since he seems to have finally graduated from his need of the ear tubes (knock on wood).

Feeling a little panicky with all the talk of “infection spreading to the bone,” I chose to fill the prescription this morning and give Leo a dose before I took him to school. Can I just pause to marvel at the wonder of antibiotics? Every time I get sick and am prescribed one (which thankfully isn’t often except for my three-time run at strep throat this spring, yay!) I am amazed at how quickly I start to feel better.

Leo was angel at the pharmacy. I try to support our neighborhood, independent pharmacy whenever I can (you may recall one especially touching time last winter when the pharmacist took pity on me with my two sick, sleeping children in the car and not only came out to my car to take my credit card but also hand delivered the medicine to me while I waited with the kids-yes my heart was warmed and a permanent customer was made).

Today the pharmacist even commented on how good Leo was: “Sometimes when kids come in here they just run all over,” he chuckled.

And that used to be Leo, a lot. Running around, not listening. And it certainly can still be. But today Leo was content to sit in the waiting area with the little muffin I bought him at the coffee shop by the ped’s office. I am noticing so many good things with Leo lately. He is more willing to hold my hand, less prone to bolting. I’m not so hesitant to run simple errands with him the way I used to be. Of course, all of this is also a heck of a lot easier when it’s just the two of us (Ellie was at daycare).

And much to my surprise, he didn’t even freak out when I took him to school. There were no tears and just a brief “collapsing into a limp noodle” incident, which he did every time I took him to school late last year and the year before. He did need a bit of cajoling from one of his classmates. Little Terry came out to the hall to greet Leo, who stood, back against the cold, tiled wall, hands over his eyes (‘cause you know, if he can’t see us we can’t see him). It took Leo less than a minute to go into his classroom where he took off his coat, put his backpack away. I’d visited the class before but that was before Leo was a student there. Before he was, you know, a real, live kindergartner. This is the first time I’ve seen Leo there in action.

When I left him he was sitting at his little desk, perched over his notebook intently and preparing to start a writing assignment. He didn’t even look back at me, didn’t even seem to notice I was leaving.

I know, it's only week two at the new school, but I think he’s really happy where he is. Sinus infection, take that.

Over the Hump?

I hope I’m not speaking to soon or jinxing anything (as a parent, I err on the side of paranoia when it comes to boasting about kid progress). That boasting seems to inevitably be the quickest way to ruin a good thing—I’m the last one to brag when a baby sleeps through the night or a certain little girl makes it through the day in just one pair of Elmo panties--but I’d venture to say that maybe, just maybe, we are over the Misery in the Morning hump.

Slowly but surely, everyone appears to be acclimating to the new routine. Truly, I’m shocked at how quickly it’s happening. As my wise friend Lisa said to me the other day: “It's amazing what we expect these kids to adjust to - I can't handle change…I don't know how I expect my kids to just suck it up!”

Another day of a happy Leo boarding his bus (today, beloved Dog was along for the ride. Let’s hope he comes home but in case he doesn’t I do have a spare and no one will be the wiser). This morning was a little hairy since Ellie was on the potty chair in the living room when the bus pulled up out front. Ellie's been, shall we say, a tad obsessed with the potty lately (I blame the chocolate raisins and fear we've created quite the chocolate raisinaholic).

So there I was, dashing down the steps with Leo, praying that Ellie didn’t toddle out of the house with her pants around her legs. Thank goodness she’s in a listening phase (I know, I know, there I go again with the boasting).

Later, as Ellie and I pulled into the lot at daycare I did hear a brief, heartbreaking little voice say: “I want to go this way! I want to go bye-bye,” (meaning, not to daycare). But the tears never came, and she settled in quickly and quietly to Trader Joe’s Strawberry Yogurt O’s. And then, it happened.

“Bye Mommy.”

Just like the old days, at her old daycare. Ellie would quietly tell me goodbye, before I even told her I was leaving. She knew what was coming.

So I took my cue, and left.

Stating the obvious here, but it’s a lot easier to have a good day when it doesn’t start with leaving your children as hot, crying messes.

Another milestone:

Photographic evidence of the infamous pigtails. I was shocked to find they were still in place when I picked her up last night.

Another milestone:

Leo had his first kindergarten homework assignment last night!

And yet another milestone (can you take it?): When I picked the kids up from daycare yesterday, Ellie and I had a real conversation about her day.

Me: “How was your day Ellie?”
Ellie: “I good.”
Me: “What did you do?”
Ellie: “I play!”

Inevitably when I ask either kid what they played or who they played with or what they did, Ellie says “Leo!” and Leo says “Ellie!”

Last night I joked to Erin we seem to have those weird freaky siblings who won’t play with anyone else…are they going to start their own secret language soon? I kid of course. I’m just so glad they have each other and that they (mostly) seem to make each other so happy.


When Leo’s not trying to put Ellie in a headlock, of course.

Whatever Gets You Through the Day

Breaking news: No tears this morning! From either one!

Friday Leo boarded the bus without struggle and crying (it was the third day of school and the first no-tears morning). I think it helped that he climbed the steps of the bus all by himself, he didn’t feel rushed. Also, I tried something new-Ellie and I walked with Leo, hand-in-hand to meet the bus. They both seemed to love this.

Today we had a repeat of no tears again, though there appeared to be a bit of a struggle to get him into his car seat on the bus (he is slower than molasses and likes to do things independently but I get that the bus can’t wait for him). I’m thinking another contribution to this morning’s success was the fact that Leo was wearing a super hero cape and carrying a magic wand. Hey, whatever gets you through the day.

Ellie was not happy on Friday (plenty of tears) but this morning she didn’t cry AT ALL. I left her sitting at the tiny table, at the daycare eating her pancakes. I’ll admit, she had a look of misery on her face, but did I mention there was no crying? That has to mean something. And also? She let me put her hair in pigtails, so she might have looked miserable, but she looked adorable and miserable. The pigtail thing is BIG, folks. We’ve been talking a lot about barrettes since she’s sprouted these pretty major bangs (more like a Farrah Fawcett flip, really). I let her pick out something to put in her hair this morning and hair bands it was.

OK, lest you think this blog has turned into “How did Leo and Ellie do going to school/daycare this morning?” (cue the snores) let’s move on.

Apropos of nothing, some pictures I've wanted to post but haven't been able to fit in a post. So here goes.

Down on the farm (we took a drive towards Pennsylvania during Labor weekend). Could Leo be any happier? (you have to click to enlarge the photo, really his smile says it all). Also, this cow was so friendly, he was like a dog.
Ellie and the dahlia field (the farm had a u-pick flower section).

The kids got silly on the drive into Manhattan a few weeks ago (the two days spent at my company daycare went well, by the way). But during the the drive in, it was shoes off, splits city.


Ellie pointing out the fountain in front of the building where I work. She's fascinated by anything related to water these days.


Wearing a cape and carrying a magic wand is really nothing unusual for Leo-he loves to dress up (extra points if he makes you laugh in his get-up). Here's Leo waiting to greet a guest at home: (note the tutu-as-collar, Easter hat and maraca in hand).

Lastly, and completely off topic...I'm not crazy about the route I have to walk to get to my office every day, but the best part is unquestionably when I walk through the theater district (it's as close as I get to a Broadway show these days). I love when a new show is opening and they are busily unpacking huge boxes of equipment, lighting and sets for the new production. I can't imagine what a complicated process that must be. And also, Jude Law on Broadway as Hamlet? Hmmm.

Meet the Kindergartener

Here is he is on the first day of school (yesterday), in all his waiting-for-the-bus-glory.

He was all smiles, until the bus came. He just doesn't like to get on the bus when he leaves from Mommy or Mama. Add Ellie to the mix and forget it.

But he was happy as can be when I picked him up from daycare last night (as was Ellie). Leo's teacher wrote in his communication book that he had a "great first day." He reportedly enjoyed taking a "tour of the school and meeting all the other teachers and therapists." Of course I'm not surprised to hear this as no one ever accused Leo of not being friendly.

Ellie is still having a hard time saying goodbye in the morning at the new daycare. Lots and lots of tears and "uppy Mommy," even when she's already in my arms, her little legs wrapped tightly around my waist. And for the first time ever, she doesn't have 'her Leo' in the mornings to keep her company at daycare. It didn't even occur to me that this might make a difference for her. But of course it makes perfect sense. They seem to grow more attached to each other by the day.


This is a big, long, hard, exciting week.

We'll get through it.

Be Careful What You Wish For

The stomachaches continue (for me anyway) on the topic of Leo’s new school. What seemed like a good idea at the time (having him go to the self-contained kindergarten/first/second grade at our local elementary school) has started keeping me awake at night. Is it the right decision? Will it be the right fit for Leo? Will he regress, as his current teacher fears? Will he get lost in the sea of a school that has no fewer than 500 kids and five kindergartens?

Last Friday at Leo’s Pre-K graduation I was an emotional wreck. I used to make fun of parents who cried over the sight of little four-year-old Timmy in his mortar board cap, marching along to “Pomp and Circumstance.” It seemed so absurd. It’s just Pre-K.

I still think the “Pomp and Circumstance” and mortar board wearing is a little silly but otherwise, boy do I Get It. This moving up to kindergarten thing is a big deal. They’re not our babies anymore. And I’m sorry but I think it’s a bigger deal when your kid has Down syndrome, or some kind of "special need." When you watch your little baby struggle to crawl and then sit and then walk and do all the things that the babies of the rest of the world seem to do without a care or a thought? It’s a big thing to see Leo standing there in his little cap, his Polo shirt tucked into his chinos, his little hands at his side as he prepares to lead his school in the “Pledge of Allegiance,” to kick off the graduation ceremony.

The district school placement social worker is holding my hand through this whole process. She listened to me patiently as I sobbed on the phone yesterday morning (Another thing: Can I please get through a conversation about Leo’s educational future without dissolving into a crying mess? Seriously, my eyes have been swollen for days). She assured me the new school is what is best for Leo. It’s the least restrictive environment. It’s what we have always hoped and dreamed for Leo, to be included with his typical peers as much as possible. So why am I suddenly a ridiculous ball of fear and anxiety and trepidation?

I talk big. I talk about the importance of inclusion but the truth is? I am terrified of the thought of losing the security blanket that is Leo’s present school. Without a doubt it is the most restrictive environment. All the kids have Down syndrome. There is no possibility for inclusion. But at the same time,it feels safe and warm and comforting and risk free.

The most I would ask is that Leo remain where he is for one more year, then move him up to the big bad world of a more inclusive environment next fall, when he’s six. But then I think, why wait, just because his mom is a big chicken? Because I know Leo sure isn’t. My only hesitation is that is old school doesn’t think he’s ready. They want him for one more year.

I’m a reporter both by trade and by nature. My instinct when faced with big (and sometimes not so big) decisions is to gather as much information as possible, get all the facts (and the feelings) organized and then see how things look, how they fit together. And so tomorrow I’ll go back to the potential new school to observe, this time without Leo. When I visited last week he came with me, so my time there was limited. In a few more weeks I’ll go to Leo’s old school to see the primary program where he would move to if he stayed there. We still have all summer to decide.

And in the meantime I will do my best to stop bursting into tears.

Huge, Big, Massive, Scary (and Also Potentially Good) Changes and Did I Mention I'm Not Good With Change?

I've had a post percolating in my head since Monday when I took the tour of Leo's prospective new school for next year.

His class would be a self contained kindergarten with six students, one teacher and three aides. The class joins the typical kindergarteners for gym, music, library and lunch. Depending on the student's strengths in certain subjects (i.e., math, reading) they may also pull students out to join typical peers in these subjects.

I left the visit on a high. It's a precious school nestled on a quiet, tree lined street about two miles from our house. It would be the first "real school" Leo has ever attended. Up to this point he did center-based E.I. at a well, center. His current school is housed in a church.

We passed the cafeteria where I spotted the hair netted lunch ladies when we first walked in and I swear, one whiff and I was in first grade again, wishing my parents would let me have a corn dog.

But I digress.

In addition to the good smelling food, the school has two gyms (one is sparkling brand new), a large library, and a dedicated music room. The bulletin boards were cluttered with fish and stories and busy borders and the halls buzzed (as most schools do) with noise and life and whiggling children.

I went to the school prepared to "write it off," figuring our district just wanted to save money by showing us this program (Leo presently attends school out of district but it's paid for by them, to the tune of about 35K).

Instead, I fell just a little bit in love. It felt right. Leo has the chance to really shine there but he still has the cushion of a place that will give him the extra help he unquestionably needs.

Then I attend the IEP/placement meeting and it all came crashing down.

OK I am being slightly dramatic. Basically his current teacher and principal don't think he's ready to leave. They want him to do one more year with them and then talk about moving into district. I believe they sincerely have his best interests in mind, but did I also mention that they are losing roughly half of their population next year through a combination of graduations and districts insisting on bringing kids back into district? (Note: our district is definitely NOT insisting. They have left the decision completely up to us and would let him remain where he is in a heartbeat so I don't believe there are any ulterior motives there.)

The principal's reaction, seeing my hesitation based on her and the teacher's reaction: "We're just like you. He's your baby but he's also our baby."

A bit of background on Leo's current school: It's a private school paid for by most public school districts (students come from far and wide, some facing one-hour plus bus rides), something like 99 percent of the children have Down syndrome. There are roughly 25 children in the school which is comprised of two preschool classes (ages3-5) and two primary classes (ages 5-approximately nine, though most students leave by about age seven). Leo has been in the preschool class since he was three and the original plan was that he would move to the primary class and spend one more year at that school.

But the evaluators think Leo is ready for kindergarten. His prospective teacher who we met when touring the school thinks he's a perfect fit (by the way this same prospective teacher received rave reviews by an acquaintance who's daughter was in her class). So what's my problem?

I think I'd feel a little less afraid if I knew Leo had the option of going back to his old school if for some reason the new one doesn't work out. But since so many kids are leaving they've had to lay some teachers off and have only one primary class (where Leo would go) and if Leo gives up his spot, that's it.

So I feel like we're out there dangling a little, taking a risk.

Change is scary, but I know, it is sometimes necessary and often good. And it is also a huge part of parenting. Kids move on, kids progress. It's a good thing. I think I just wish his current teacher was a little more excited about this. But I have to wonder how much of it is political and also a bit over-protective. I adore Leo's school but I also get a strong feeling that they are big fans of "Birds of a Feather..." if you know what I mean. And also? They kept saying how "their kids" do better when they spend that extra year there (transitioning between preschool and kindergarten). But who's to say Leo won't be the exception? If we've learned anything since Leo arrived it's that he surprises us almost daily, and does things when he's ready to do them. And my gut says he's ready, even though I am yes, terrified.

Oh and as if all this wasn't enough, we're moving the kids into a new daycare/aftercare. It's significantly less expensive and much closer. Thankfully it's not happening until August because if it were any sooner I think my head just might explode.

It's a Beech

Leo came home this week with his sweet little class schedule (flag salute, snack, toileting. The usual preschool fun.) And then. This week’s unit? Why it’s summer, so they are studying the beech of course! Yes, the beech. Who doesn’t love the beech? They are learning about sand, sand castles, the ocean, swimming, the sun. You know, the beech.

I could see one typo. One misspelling. But this thing was covered in beech. It was almost comical, See how many times you can spot the misspelled word! I’ve never seen the word beech so many times in my life.

I know these kids have Down syndrome and they’re only like three and four years old and all, but don’t they deserve to learn how to spell properly?

I’ve heard about teachers making embarrassing grammatical and factual errors. To be fair, I come from a family of teachers, so I am not knocking teachers. I know they have a tough job. But this just seems odd to me.

Am I overreacting?

I realize this means I am not allowed to ever make a typo in this blog again. Crap.